Takeout
by DamaDeHonor
Summary: For Dean, food is love. But where did he learn that lesson from? One possible scenario, plus, a little food poisoning.


_For _**poestheblackcat**_ and _**VesperRegina**_ for helping with the editing and plotting. :D Thank you bunches and bunches... ad nauseam._

**Spoilers:** Season 1, 2, and 3. (Possibly.)

- - -

**"Takeout"**

"Are you okay, Dean?"

"No." He didn't bother lifting his face out of the pillow he had it buried in.

"What's up? You catch the flu bug?" He felt the bed dip as Sam took a seat beside him and placed his hand against the bit of Dean's forehead that was peeking out.

Dean turned his head to speak this time. "No... maybe..." He knew what was going on, but the truth was, he was too embarrassed to say.

"Dean," Sam warned.

"Go away, Sammy." He moaned, and then with a tiny, self-pitying whine, lurched to his feet, narrowly avoiding jabbing Sam's eye with his elbow as he hurried past.

Sam came to stand in the doorway to the bathroom, as Dean hugged the toilet bowl close, like a treasured stuffed animal.

"You ate the food in the mini fridge, didn't you?"

He groaned. "Dean, come on, man," Sam said, in frustration, "You knew it was going bad!"

"It was callin' to me!"

"Seriously?" Sam helped him up over to the bed, after the second time he'd barfed, guiding him onto his back, pillow propped behind him for support.

"Ugh, God, Dean! Brush your teeth!" Dean smirked. Payback was awesome. "What is it with you and food, anyway? You act like it's love, or something."

"I do no-- Whatever, man." He glared, then looked away, failing to find a legitimate excuse.

Sam stayed put, staring him into words.

"Hey," Dean said, with a forced grin, hoping to distract him, "You remember that time Dad came back with the roast chicken and all the fixings? Man that thing was de-freakin'-licious! We all just sat around, eating and joking, remember? Then you almost choked on a piece of bone 'cause you were laughing so hard, and I had to use the Heimlich on you 'cause Dad was cracking up too much to help?"

"Dean, that makes me worry about what your definition of a 'good time' is."

"And you remember that other time?" Dean went on, but his stomach cramped painfully and he had to pause to whimper. He didn't miss Sam's veiled, bemused look. "Dad got some burger meals? Then he spit something out on his napkin. Turned out it was someone's fingernail. Dude, that was disgusting. Hahah, oh, ouch, agh..." He took a small breather and his eyes watered and a little whine rose up in his throat. He cleared his throat and went on, "He threw the whole thing in the trash and..." He trailed off, and Sam wondered, "And what?"

"Nothin'..."

"He what, Dean?"

Dean scowled, stared at his fingers, twitching against the comforter, tried not to concentrate too hard on the way his belly was alternately cramping and surging. "He went out and got drunk," he mumbled.

"Oh, great story, Dean. We'll put that one in our Hunter's Autobiography."

"Shuddup."

"Man, come to think of it, the few good times we _did_ have were when Dad brought food back after a long job." Sam's words were slow, thoughtful, as he continued, "You think he did it 'cause he felt guilty?"

"I think Dad did a lot of stuff 'cause he felt guilty."

"Look, man, I'm sorry about the comment about your eating," Sam said, after a moment, "But if you're trying to fill up a void with food, it's not gonna work."

"Oh, and you want me to be like you, mister picky-eater?"

"Dean..."

"I have a high metabolism."

Sam snorted, and Dean fumed, silently. He got a light-headed buzz, and for a moment, his stomach rose like the tide. He forced it back down with a hard swallow. Meanwhile, Sam started to chew on the subject like an old bone. "Every time Dad brought food back, we all sat around the table and... well, we kinda talked. It was still dysfunctional, but it was something. I mean, we actually laughed, sometimes. Maybe you're just trying to recapture feelings that aren't even attached to the food you're eating." He started to look like he was suppressing a grin. "You really want a laugh, Dean? Just look at your face in the mirror."

Dean cuffed him, weakly, and Sam moved away from the bed, laughing.

"Wuss..."

"Vomit breath."

"You watch it, Sammy. Next time my gorge rises, I'm gonna let you have a little seafood splatter."

Sam sat down at the table, still chuckling softly.

Dean shifted onto his side, mindful of his stomach. He closed his eyes, and tried to think of nice, non-toxic things, like M&Ms. Nope. Bad choice.

He was just glad the bathroom was only a few feet away. 'Cause it was gonna be a _long_ night.

- end -


End file.
